


"I'd die for you," that's easy to say,

by civilorange



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe Spoilers, free form, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'd live for you," that's hard to do.</p><p>// Prompts.</p><p>C4. "Life and Death have been in love, for longer than we have had words to describe.<br/>Life sends countless gifts to Death, and Death keeps them forever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I'd live for you," that's hard to do.

**Author's Note:**

> So, these are my prompts from tumblr, I have a few posts, some sitting in folders, and some I haven't written yet; little things I jot down when I have a little free time, and no cohesion to do something for a longer story. I'm still accepting them, and slowly working my way through them. We'll start with one that happens somewhere around S3.
> 
>  **PROMPT** : After the fight with Roan, Clarke wants to know why Lexa doesn’t seem to care much about her own death. But she does care, more than she lets on.

“I—you almost died, Lexa.” You _can’t_ say you almost lost her, because she isn’t yours to have—she’s just a girl who lives inside you, she has grown like vines around your heart, and through your lungs, and you can’t imagine your life without the tightness in your chest. That gets tighter with every unsure glint in celadon colored eyes, every cautious smile. You want to hate how your heart thumps and skips, but it makes you feel _alive_ , and you’ve been a feral corpse for much of the last three months. Shambling and numb.

She looks up at you, from where she glowers at slips of paper, and baskets of gifts; soured things now that the ambassadors have showed their graying colors. Her eyes are pale—almost gray, but still too green to be mistaken for such. “But I didn’t,” her brows tuck closer to her eyes, her skin still darkened slightly from where she’d hastily scrubbed her war paint from her face. “And if I had, my spirit would have chosen wisely—you don’t have to fear for your people, _Klark_.”

She always does this—this _stupid_ , and _stubborn_ girl doesn’t understand how you felt each blow like phantom pains in your chest. How even when you wanted her dead, even when rage burned through you like blood and bones and muscle; you’d still felt something debilitating and _wholesome_ for her. This _stupid_ warrior poet.

“That isn’t what I meant, Lexa,” you intone, “And you know it.”

Her chin dips like maybe she agrees, like maybe she knows everything you can’t say because this isn’t the time for soft somethings like that. Putting the papers down, bandage turning black from the gash across her palm, Lexa leans back.

You don’t give her the chance to comment—to smooth talk this better.

“Why do you relish the idea of dying so much?” You ask, the words fast and sharp.

Like grinding to a halt, Lexa frowns. “Relish?” A click of her tongue in a word that didn’t require it.

“Just because you aren’t afraid to die, doesn’t mean those around you want you to,” you almost feel petulant for pointing it out, but you know Titus would agree—the poor man must have lost all his hair simply from dealing with this commander and her tendency for dower dramatics.

You’re expecting a smooth comment, another fortune cookie lesson, but what you get is honesty.

You were prepared for everything—but that.

“I’m afraid, Clarke.” Lexa whispers, a trapped secret caught in wolf’s teeth, “Of dying. Of failing.” Maybe her eyes are gray—because they suddenly seem duller for the words spoken; hollow at the edges where life typically lingers, the color bleeding away until the only discernable brightness is the flicker of torchlight across her face.

“Commanders don’t live long; we’re shiny toys meant for war, and when our finish has worn away—” The pause isn’t emotional, it isn’t a hiccup, or a stammer. It’s just—quiet. An odd sort of peace you remember from solitary—of the echo in steel and cement, the artificial whir of recycled air. You never imagined that Lexa would bring to mind the black empty of space, or the loneliness found in the stars—no, she’s earth, and musk, and fire. Smoke and rain.

“We die.”

Two words—just two words, but the acceptance of them is startling. _We die_.

“I’m going to die, and the only comfort I have is knowing that it will mean something—that someone else will step forward, will support my people.” Lexa always stands when agitation settles in her bones—the smooth stalk of a caged predator, hands folded behind her back like she must contain her hands from the things they are _so_ capable of. “That someone will be there for them, when I cannot.”

The artist in you longs for charcoal—so that you can somehow capture the hurricanes in her eyes, sad destructive things spiraling out at sea, picking up speed—faster, and faster. Somehow put on paper the lovingly cared for graveyard in her soul—in the curve of her shoulders, and the tilt of her chin. Proud and humble, strong and vulnerable—complex, and contradicting and—human, so _damned_ human.

How had you missed it?

This girl—this progressive reticent wright—is so scared that tomorrow will crumble because she failed someone one too many times. That one day when all backs have turned, she will step into an arena and fall—and the cold comfort she wraps around her tender, limping heart is that it will somehow mean something. That there was some divine plan that could not have come to pass if she lived.

Standing slowly, hands loose and open at your sides, you step toward her—slow, calming—her eyes flicker to everything but your face, looking toward the candles until her pupils constrict, making her look leonine and _other_. You’re choking on your heartbeat when you raise trembling hands to smooth fingers along the sword edge of her jaw.

Her eyes find you; wide, and earnest, and quiet—her warm skin a comfort to the cool touch of your fingertips, so much so that you can’t stop yourself from curving your palms against her cheeks, fingers tangling into the soft short hairs just below her ears. You can feel how Lexa’s jaw clenches and jumps as she swallows, leaning ever so slightly into the warmth of your palms.

“I’m sorry,” you say in sharp focus, but the edges of your vision are blurring—the sting is distant, far away, and it builds as you meander through your thoughts. Pulling on the edges of the tapestry—no longer satisfied with the splashes of color. You want substances—images woven into the fabrics. A red string, a gold one—a celadon one.

You feel it all acutely—pit falls and fortress walls spaced equally through your heart, but you know the landscape intimately. The guilt, and shame, and anger, and fear—it races through you with such force you couldn’t imagine not wearing it just under your skin. That was why you had to leave—you couldn’t look at those you had killed to keep safe, you couldn’t watch them _live_ , and not shatter. You had to hide these truths from them—had to hold their burden for them, because—because why?

But Lexa—she stayed. She carved out pieces of her heart—you know that now, know it so well—and speared them through, leaving them at the gates of Polis as a warning. _If I’ll do this to those I cared for, what will I do to those who I don’t?_ You suppose Nia learned that lesson—a lecture capitulated on the tip of a spear. Lexa had watched the weak shadows who had left the mountain trembling grow—become strong again, walk with straight spines.

She lingered in the dark, listening to the whispers of betrayal, folding the concerns inward and away, until they were just another sharp edge through the chambers of her heart. Another black spot on her darkening soul.

“You’ve done nothing, _Klark_.” Her voice is a rumble, a burred whisper of confusion, while brows pull downward and eyes refuse to move from your own—a captured predator, tamed all the while as your fingers scratch lightly against her jaw, but there was that _something_ lingering in the green of her eyes.

You forge on regardless.

“You’re so good at tucking away things you don’t— _shouldn’t_ —feel,” you want to ask the oldest a commander has been, you want to ask how old she is—you want to know so many of the rock formations that live under her skin. The hard points that press into her muscles, and against her bones. “I’m sorry I forgot that.”

God, the way she looks at you—so quiet, so contemplative—her eyes skimming along your cheeks and across your lips. Like there are words there to read, stories to be told that you haven’t brought yourself to voice. But when she finds your eyes again, there is that resolve lingering in the curl of her shoulders—so much more delicate now that the armor has been removed, that her body is that of a girl, and not a warlord.

“I was selfish before—so selfish. I was young, and sad, and scared, and I didn’t know how to live with that—not once the mantle of commander became mine, not once it wasn’t just some distant possibility.” Like looking at lightening jumping through the clouds a mile away—hearing the rumble of thunder—knowing it was heading right for you, but still having those moments to breath.

“I loved _Kostia_ ; she was bright, and soft, and knew when I just needed—,” you will never know _what_ , but the hapless lift of delicate shoulders is enough for you to understand. Nothing tawdry, nothing lewd—but for the leader of twelve clans— _thirteen_ —they’re unmentionable things. “But I was selfish, because I was _heda_ , and that meant I would die—that she would be left behind. That she would have broken pieces, and ache in the places I used to fit.”

The hurricanes in her eyes make landfall—fast, and loud, and absolute—like a broken window, she shatters. Nothing untoward, nothing dramatic—a single tear, silently falling down her cheek, as if she wasn’t even aware it was there. She blinks hard once—twice—and then lifts her chin slightly. Your hands haven’t moved, and you push forward until your fingers are combing through her loose hair—until you feel the tension in the nape of her neck. Pressing into the taut muscles, rubbing away the tightness.

“And then she died; and it suddenly didn’t matter that I was going to die as well, because we hadn’t died together, and even when it felt like I couldn’t breathe, and all I was, was anger, and hatred, and sadness—I had to look her killer in the eyes, and think of my people instead.” No more tears after that first one—but your own eyes are hot and wet, your fingers gripping more than massaging. You don’t know when she’d shifted closer—but hot hands have settled low on your hips, fingers curled into the fabric of your night ware.

“Had to think of those I was leaving behind,” _leaving behind_ , the odd hiccup in those words, the stretch and rasp, as she leans forward enough to rub her nose along yours. Even riddled with the holes of sadness pocketing your heart, your lips still part slightly, expecting the press of hers—but she simply leans her foreheads against yours.

“You left me behind,”

Her nose rubs along yours again, a silent apology—and if you were shaking, and she wasn’t hushing words into the cool skin of your jaw—you’d think it adorable.

“And I ached,” so quiet, almost unspoken, “And I was sorry. And when I found out you had lived—how it had happened—it was worse, because I couldn’t even hold the burden alone. You had it too.”

The burden—this weight that sits on your shoulders like mountains and meteors—that threatens to pull you down, to make you forget yourself. But it’s easier here—easier with Lexa. With her gray-green eyes, and the sadness that lines her bones, and the fear that lives just below her skin. You can’t forgive her—not yet, maybe not ever—but you understand, and in this world of dirt, and blood, and compromise—that’s more important.

Curling fingers into the dark of her hair, the strands knot around your knuckles, and the tug gets her attention, makes her pull back half an inch, just enough you can see how dark her hooded eyes have become—jade, instead of celadon—how her throat bobs as she swallows.

“You’re mine, Lexa.” You don’t intend to say it—but it slips past with so much meaning. Her forgiveness belongs to you, her blood is yours to spill, her skin is yours to mark—her sins yours to absolve. But beyond that, you can’t forget how she had looked—on her knees, pale eyes looking up at you, face drawn, such earnest sincerity painted into the edges of her being.

The commander bow to no one—except you.

“ _Klark_ …,” your name, a breathy exhale, but you tighten your fingers a little more, tugging, and her eyes slid shut, face going slack.

“I’ve told you before your spirit needs to stay exactly where it is,” low, your breath fanning across her cheeks, “Aden seems like a nice boy, and I’m sure he’d do his best—but he isn’t you, Lexa. I need you.”


	2. reaper!lexa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** : What if the Mountain Men had offered Clarke the deal instead of Lexa? Would she take it? And what would take place in the aftermath? (from: longliveclexa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wrote this one on my mobile, like a tool. So it is a rough little word-doodle. In other news, I am about to start watching s3, and I am beyond excited. 
> 
> Anywho, enjoy! I'm still accepting prompts.

She looks different here—in the bowels of the Arkadia; chrome and glass, and cement surrounding her. Somehow smaller—somehow less—but then, it is as if your eyes refocus, and you really see the scene before you. Grounders wrapped in worn leather and time worn fabric; their faces blocked by curved junkyard grates of metal teeth and animal bone grins. The most savage and gnarled grounders you’d ever seen—no quiet intelligence like from Indra, no stalwart loyalty like in Gustus, no wry bravery like from Anya—these warriors are made from blood, and bones, and ruin. The mongrels that seem to live in every society—except the ground has made a living of producing such beings.

But that isn’t what has your mind—it isn’t their stone quiet eyes, or their large bulking frames; no, it’s the assault rifles strapped to their chests, held almost awkwardly in their large hands, dwarfed by their impressive builds. Their fingers rest harmlessly along the guard surrounding the trigger, so close to violence, and yet so—restrained. It’s not the kind of discipline you expect from the passionate people of the ground—a dull carefulness that seems to linger in them despite everything.

“ _Klark kom skaikru_ ,” her voice is different; there is no melody, there is no lilting superiority, and for the first time, you can see her how almost every other enemy has. Cold, untouched; the kohl dragged across her face isn’t uniform, isn’t neat as you’ve always noticed. It is shaky, and thick, and there is still crimson stained at the edges of her jaw, and the corners of her temples. Eyes the brightest green watch as you’re shoved unceremoniously into the strategy room that had once been Kane’s—then your mothers—then yours. It had been yours until this morning—until…

There’ll be time to think about this morning later.

“Lexa,” her name cracks off your lips, hoarse and unsure, because while this is Lexa—there is no doubt—there’s _something_ missing, things that concern you with their absence. The warm intelligence that had always been a comfort—that this visionary would do what was right—has warped and twisted, turning in on itself until you’re unsure how to measure the calculation in her gaze. Sharp, hungry—like the canny gaze of a fox outside a chick coop, knowing all that stands in her way is miniscule amounts of wire.

Lexa doesn’t respond, but the warrior that has pulled you through the halls by your bicep grunts, and shoves you to your knees. The dull ache is nothing, some distant hurt that you can worry about later, but past decisions have come back to haunt you—choices made in the depths of war, in the turmoil of loss. “ _Shof op, skaikru._ ” The man growls, the cold metal of a rifle barrel pressing carefully under the slope of your jaw, pushing into the tender line of your throat.

Lexa just watches. She’s the only one in the room who doesn’t have an assault weapon, the only one without pilfered tactical vests and armored plating. You finally notice Indra in the corner, her hand resting on the holster of a nasty looking semi-automatic pistol, which fits snugly beside her sword. The glowering woman’s face is pinched, her lips pressed; but she’s removed, away from the core circulation of people holding this pillaged war room.

“We’ve separated all your allies, _Klark_ _kom skaikru_.” Your attention snaps back to Lexa, to her almost stilted words—delays hitching between words, eyes flicking away, before returning to you. Somehow sharper, hungrier—the least restrained in the room, and yet she was the only control present. One word, and you know your people would be slaughtered. “Don’t worry, _prisa_ , they’re alive and unharmed.” The drawling grin that crawls like an encroaching storm across her lips is disconcerting, artificial—but still somehow genuine, like she knows, but can’t feel it.

“What do you want, Le—,” the muzzle presses harder, and her name stops, grinding your teeth, you continue, “— _commander_.”

“What do I want?” She says it to the guard on her left, from where she’s seated at the head of the table—the only person other than you, not on their feet—the warrior doesn’t react, doesn’t move, and Lexa stands. Whole heads shorter than most of her warriors, her frame willowy in comparison, but there is no question who is holding court here. “What I’ve always wanted, Clarke; _peace_.” The last word said like a laugh, like it is some joke she’s only just gotten the punch line of— _peace_ , _how funny._

“This doesn’t look like peace,”

She laughs again, but there’s nothing joyous about the sound, “Oh, and you would be an authority on peace? Tell me, what does it look like? Maybe I’ve misunderstood the point—I am a savage, after all.”

There’s the calculation, the slow stepping walk of someone who has answers—a lion’s share of them—and enough military weight to throw around.

“Is peace accepting a deal that leaves the two-hundred sixty four captured to be slaughtered? Shot in cages, like animals.” A slender finger dances through the air absently, “Is it turning away refugees from _Tondisi_ because you wish not to be _involved_?” The slanted way she says _involved_ says how she feels about that.

Her words are like poison poured in your air, burning and corroding, and all it does it touch the things inside you that have been roiling for the last three months—the guilt, and shame, and fear. All the things you had shoved down at the mountain, because it was the right choice for _your_ people. Dante Wallace had looked you in the eyes, a sad tired blue imploring you to walk away; to take your people, and your technology, and walk away.

And you had— _God_ , you had.

The grounders hadn’t even been able to makes heads or tails of it—their commander up on the ridge, all the sky people pulling back, heading toward the tunnels where Indra’s group had been captured, where Octavia struggled and fought, breaking free only to force her way inside to find Bellamy. You hadn’t been there, you retreated with the militia back toward Arkadia.

The gates snapped shut, the flood lights went on, and everyone held their breaths—they waited for the swift retribution of the grounders. You waited at the gates for signs of torch light through the forest—but it never came. Not the next day, or the day after—a month past, then two.

It wasn’t until the decimated crew from farm station staggered toward the gate that you realized what had happened— _mountain fallen, grounders armed._ Somehow they had done it without you—without the technology, without the planning—the mountain had been cracked, the large door left open—the large billowing cloud of smoke was from a pyre five hundred bodies large. Murderers burned along with their victims.

“You would have taken the deal too,” you want to rage, want to cry, and tell this girl how sorry you are—how the decision haunts you at night—when you close your eyes and imagine how many had died because you loved your people. Because you’d been tasked with making the hard choices; you had to sell your soul, because no one else would.

“Hm?” She’s so close now, and you realize she’s lost weight—it isn’t horrible, but her cheeks are hollowed, and her eyes sunken ever so slightly. The whites around her molten green irises are shot through with crawling marks of red, and she’s blinking far too often—from the lights, from the ring of distant hands hitting metal sheeting. “To be able to save my people without losing a single life,” it’s contemplative.

She exhales, fingers extending and then curling into a fist, “Of course, I would have. I’m not saying I don’t understand, Clarke; I do.”

Hands tug until your standing, the gun pressing against your spine now, as Lexa turns away, looking back toward where she had been sitting. “I’m sorry, Lexa.” The hands tighten, a warning of using her name, but she’s looking at you out of the corner of her eye, warily, carefully. “I can’t regret saving my people, but I can—.”

“Leave us!” Her raised voice is like a bullet through the air, cutting you off, and shifting every warrior in the room. They don’t hesitate before bowing, and turning away—filing out into the hall, and you’re sure to manage the residents of the Arkadia.

Approaching you slowly, like you are some doe that will startle easily, her hands half open at her sides, her steps quiet. “I thought of you.” A low hum, almost lost to the whir of machinery, but not quite. “For two months, I thought of you—I saw you occasionally, standing at the gate—looking into the woods—who were you looking for?”

Her breath hits your cheeks now, and she’s close enough to touch—there’s a new tattoo on her neck, crawling down into the collar of her clothing. You’re snared by her eyes, by the kaleidoscope of emotion swirling through the green presented. Imploring you to tell the truth now, to be honest with her now after three months. The answer that you’re already sure she knows, because she isn’t stupid—she’s many things, but that isn’t one of them.

“You.”

She smiles, and your heart stutters, “Here I am.”

Hands extended slightly to her sides, as if presenting herself, and your heartbeat lives on the back of your tongue, lodged in your throat. She leans so close, hands void of gloves slanting along your jaw—gentle, soothing. And the klaxons inside your brain sound—warnings that this isn’t right, that this shouldn’t be happening. But you’re guilt, and shame, and need tangled together, and her touch is the cool balm to your soul.

“Did you miss me _, Klark_?” Her fingers tangle into the blonde of your hair, getting lost as you lean into the touch—so much of you knows this is _wrong_ , that even if you hadn’t betrayed her, something about Lexa isn’t _right_. But you’re nodding, feeling the little hairs at the nape of your neck tug from where they’re wrapped around her fingers.

Lexa hums, “Good.”

She kisses you—not tentative and soft like she had in her tent, but like a declaration of war, like a sovereign laying claim to what is hers. Her fingers tighten, and her body slants closer until you can feel every metal hook and catch of her clothing, and beneath that, every tense muscle and straining rib. You hear something, and it takes you a half-second to realize it’s you—a whine released from somewhere in your throat, as you submit to the kiss, your hands scrabbling for some purchase on her clothing, for something to hold onto—because even though she’s consuming you, devouring you whole—you feel her pulling away already. Mentally, if not physically.

And then she’s stepping away, releasing you like it isn’t hard—like she could do it at any moment—something wild and unsettling settling in the green of her eyes as she barks, “Indra!” You’re too busy catching your breath, gulping down lungfuls of air that you don’t hear the general enter—that you don’t hear her say your name—don’t realize she’s even there until she’s holding your bicep and directing you away. Lexa has sit back down—small and savage against the backlight of computer—and she looks straight through you as you leave.

“What happened to her, Indra?” You’re in the hall when you finally ask, away from prying ears, away from careful guards and manic commanders.

“War, sky girl.” Indra burrs, like it’s that simple.

“No, this is different— _she’s_ different.” Her lips soft, but so hard—taking, when she’d been so giving before.

Indra doesn’t answer, she doesn’t say anything as you’re marched down the hall—you see your people separated, only five or six together at any given moment. Raven is sat in the middle of the mess hall, her wrists shackled, two guards standing at either of her sides—she’s yards away from the closest Arkers.

This is what Lexa meant— _separated_. All those who were looked to for guidance were on lock down—Raven, Bellamy, Kane, and Abby. Indra must see you looking because she answers your unspoken question, “She knows your people to be sheep—she has removed their shepherds, and hopes that will keep your people alive.” Unspoken is the death sentence that is rebellion. “You each will be sent to a clan—a ward to keep the rest of your people compliant.”

It is so— _medieval_ , that it shakes you for a moment. Your people are going to be split up and shipped off; but despite the dread that clutches your heart, that strangles your thoughts, it still isn’t the slaughter that you’d been expecting. Indra shoves you into your room, and you’re expecting a gathering of warriors, all ready to put you down if you make one wrong move—but there isn’t. Just one.

“Octavia,” you can’t help saying her name like that of a ghost, no one from the ark has seen her in months, she never returned from the mountain, and no one could pin the exact moment she slipped away. Bellamy had raged for weeks, rebelling against orders that he was to stay inside the gates—that he needed to get a hold of himself—and then somewhere around a months after her disappearance, he came back subdued.

Quiet. Accepting.

You’d been too busy trying to keep your people’s heads above water, that you suddenly couldn’t look the gift horse of a cooperative Bellamy in the mouth. Your right hand was back, and he cared again—as gruffly as usual, but it was enough.

“Hey, princess, long time no see.” She’s situated on a bulkhead, her frame folded in on itself, but she looks good—healthy— _strong_. And all the pieces click together, like a puzzle that had been eluding you for too long.

“You helped get Lexa into the mountain.” A statement, not a question, and the surprised jump of her brow is the only confirmation you need at the moment.

“Into?” She asks, lowering her booted feet to the ground, the rifle across her lap sitting there like she hadn’t the first clue how to use it—but the sword on her back? That she wore with certainty. “I helped get her out.”

 _Get her out_ , like a guillotine blade dropping on an unsuspecting neck.

“Out?”

Octavia tips her chin, watching you—trying to see if you really had no idea. “She was captured, Clarke—when the _skaikru_ pulled back.”

The twitch in her fingers, the rapid blinking, the red crawling across the whites of her eyes—you swallow, not wanting to admit the truth, the one you can’t ignore now, because you’d seen this before. You’d seen the aftermath of such a thing, and that had been after only days—what would _months_ look like.

“They made her a reaper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // **prompt** : lexa as a reaper, and clarke sees the differences.
> 
> Come say _hey_ to me on tumblr @ **civilorange** ; I'm harmless, promise. I accept messages, prompts, pats on the back, and anything in between! Please excuse all the ridiculous things I reblog.


	3. reaper!lexa pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** : Continuation of the reaper!Lexa/Clarke took the deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDEK what this is? I had _a lot_ of requests to continue the last prompt, so I just kind of crammed them all together. This one is from Lexa's point of view, a little glimpse at reaper!Lexa's mindset. As usual, minimal editing, because I'm an illiterate heathen.

You don’t think she’s supposed to look like that—gold, and bright, and _present_ —but the red has made everything look different; it hugs the edges of your vision like a mist, pulsing and consuming, threatening to pull you back under if you falter for even a moment. It cracks into the world around you, leaving fissures and gaps that you can’t account for—blind spots that can’t be smoothed over, and fixed.

But you don’t know if you want to fix them—the _red_ sooths you, it bleeds into you and calms the frantic patter of your heart. The heavy beat against the hollow bones of your chest; gavel crashes and life sentences.

It has been weeks since _the mountain_ —everyone around you stresses the words so that it becomes a known event, one that no one needs clarification on—and days since Arkadia. The metallic hum in the walls of the crashes satellite makes it so that you cannot sleep—cannot close your eyes because there is something you are _forgetting_. Some fact, or feeling, that lingers like a punctured balloon in a thunderstorm—tangled up in the branches of a tree; mangled, and metallic.

When you close your eyes and try to think about it, all you can see if _red_. Seeping into your skin, living in the cracks of your palms. Your fingernails are long—longer than you like to keep them, _you think_ —and one nail has gone black from where you had bled underneath it. Black, not _red_. Your skin itches, because you know that _it_ is underneath—your fingers itch, and scratch, and when the pain comes, you have trouble stopping.

The _red_ is under there— _hiding_ from you.

It isn’t until hands have wrapped around your own—strong, and sure hands—that you realize your fingertips are crimson. The haze is receding, pulling away, and you’re left with confusion, and pain, and a tightness in your chest.

“ _Heda_ ,” Indra says quietly, though you are the only two in the room—she shouldn’t even be here, but Indra has been keeping closer. Worry living in her dark eyes, lingering in her warrior bones. “ _Heda_ , you need to stop.”

You don’t fight her—not like you did only a month ago—because Indra has become a foundation; unflinching, and solid. She said your name quietly when you had her pressed into a wall, blade starting to carve into the skin of her neck— _red_ pouring free, over your dirty fingers and seeping into the cloth of your sleeve.

She hadn’t called you _heda_ then, no—she hadn’t even called you _Lexa_ —she called you _Alexandria_. Like some artifact from the old world—before the fires and the bombs—the _red_ didn’t know _Alexandria_. It had been just enough to allow Octavia to wrap an arm around your throat—she jerked you away, and wrestled you to the ground.

You had struggled—thrashing, and twisting—and if you had been in your right mind, you would have appreciated how far Octavia had come. How she sized you up, keeping out of the mad swing of hands and knives. All the while Indra said your name— _Alexandria, Alexandria, Alexandria_ —until you were more focused on shaking that name out of your head, than trying to make Octavia bleed.

Now—weeks removed from the beast you were—Indra remains, trying her hardest to keep your _red_ cracks from spilling into the world around you. The people who looked at you with wide eyes filled with things you hardly remember the words for anymore—hope, and awe, and pride, and belief.

Silly words meant for children.

“Where is she?” _She_ , your general doesn’t have to ask for clarification—doesn’t have to deduce who you mean, because she’s frowning now—looking displeased, and _irked_. You almost smile.

Almost.

“In her quarters,” she’s stood up, hands knotted behind her back so that she can properly frown down at you, “Octavia is watching over her.”

Shaking your head, shaking the _names_ and _memories_ out, like they could simply tumble from your ear; roll away somewhere that you don’t have to think on. Somewhere dark and untouched. You’re walking away before you realize you haven’t responded—only Indra’s unbothered, _heda_ , a reminder.

“A walk,” throwing the words over your shoulder as you leave the room, your guards falling in on either of your sides. They’re impossibly loud in these metal halls, their boots clanging, their heels dragging—men used to forests and tunnels, they don’t know how to lift their feet, how the sound is different here. After two halls, you wave them away, back toward your pilfered bedroom—away from you, taking their noise with them.

You walk down the clinking halls like you don’t know where you’ll end up—like this isn’t where you’ve been every night for the last few. Octavia doesn’t even blink when she sees you—her face is settled into a severe frown, her eyebrows pinching. This sky girl that the clouds had no claim on, who you had been so eager to kill with very little prompt—you are not infallible. Maybe you had to be dismantled to realize it.

“She finally fell asleep,” you nod at the words, and with a tip of your chin, encourage the youngest Blake to find rest for herself. She offers something of a smile—laced with something foreign like _encouragement_ —before slinking off down the hall, leaving you to whisper the door open and slip inside.

You sit against the bulkhead, sword across your lap, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides—in the black of night, it is hard to see the _red_ —hard to notice how it seeps into everything until the sun has tripped over the mountains to the east, and fallen upward into the sky. But Clarke—

—but, _Clarke_.

There’s a haze around her, a dull glittering gold, as if sunlight lives just below her skin; trapped forever in this sky child of constellations and stardust. It expands with every lift of her chest, dimming as she releasing her breath—a beacon in the dark.

This must be how moths feel—to drift closer and closer to the flame, even when embers catch the delicate weave of tinsel wings. How the fire gnaws and chews and destroys—but the _warmth_. It lingers like time bombs in your bones, asking you to keep a quiet countdown until you can no longer feel the things living in the hollow of your veins.

You’d asked Lincoln if he still saw the _red_ , if it still replaced colors—stealing blues, and greens, and yellows from the world. He’d looked—crestfallen—his earnest face sad, and soft, and you wanted to cover his eyes, to distance yourself once more. “I only saw it for a day or two,” he’d said softly, like he was finally seeing the shaking edges you’d kept away from everyone else. He knew the _red_ —however briefly.

It had been _weeks_ since your last injection, and the itch lives below your skin now like some macabre passenger. Riding along with you no matter the destination.

This is the only place your find solace—the quiet hitching breath of this _skai gada_. There’s something imperfect about how Clarke breaths when asleep—a little hiccup on every ninth breath, when her lungs exhale everything and take a moment to realize. You find the rhythm easy enough—in, out, in out—and then wait, for that single stutter.

Clarke isn’t gold when she’s awake—no, she’s shades of yellow, and orange, and her own taste of red—lighter than what lives in your mind, but still warm, and inviting. When she is with her friends—the sky children who fell with her—she’s blue and green, she’s smoother, losing some of her edges.

Too snarled in your own mind, you don’t notice that she doesn’t hiccup—that her breathing is smooth, and consistent, that it is _too_ even. You don’t notice how her body has shifted just enough for her to face you—still half tucked under blankets, face lost to the dark. No, the gold is warming, and your mind snapping back like an over-taxed rubber band.

“Lexa.” Just the way she says your name lets you understand that she _knows_. It is the new quality that exists for you now, that uncertainty that people feel around you now. Not that you’re dangerous—no, you’ve always been that—but that your reasoning isn’t sound any longer. That your judgement is suspect.

Is it?

It is.

You don’t say anything, but she must notice that she finally has your attention because she sits up—slowly—the blanket falling down around her waist. The shirt she’s wearing is slipping off one shoulder, and you can’t—you can’t— _think_. You remember pliant lips, and breathy whines. War time kisses given, and peace time kisses taken.

“Lexa?” It’s different this time—somehow, in some way you wouldn’t be able to explain if asked. Like she sees _you_. The person under the war paint, beneath the haze of _red_ , below the mask of razor indifference. You can’t see her eyes, they’re cast into shadow, but you _feel_ them—in the same way the blood claws its way up your spine and into your lungs and heart. Burying itself in you until you are nothing but curling claws and shattered jaws.

You’re moving before you realize—sword forgotten, the metal and leather of your armor quiet. You’ve eclipsed the side of her bed before she even thinks to move back—but she doesn’t. She blinks up at you, the whites of her eyes catching the few errant dots of light, making them seem wide and scared.

But she isn’t.

You blink at her—slowly, _too_ slowly—and reach for her.

She flinches just before your fingers touch her cheek, and you retract, hovering so close that you could still feel the warmth of her skin—the _red_ tells you to _take, take, take_ —but you’re shaking the thoughts from your head before they have any hope of hooking in. Your breathing slows—nine breaths, than a pause—and by the eighth breath, you feel the smooth skin of Clarke’s jaw against your palm. She’s leaning into your touch, her eyes keeping you present—keeping you _here_.

She’s looking at you—one part uncertain, three parts fearless—and her hand covers yours, keeping you in place. “I’m not afraid of you, Lexa.” It should be defiant, but its— _reassuring_ , a promise you hadn’t realized you’d been looking for. Her eyes are blue, and whole, and consuming—and for the first time in months, there is only _blue_.

No red.

Just _blue_.

Like crisp spring skies, and endless oceans; you’ve always been the predator, mongrel hands and a junkyard grin. But now you’re a rabbit—caught and kept, stashed away in the _blue_ of her eyes. You feel cool, the heat that has lived under your skin ebbing some, sinking into the cold dark of your heart.

“I’m sorry, Lexa.” She whispers, and you almost lose it in the hum of this— _this_ machine you’re in—but you’re watching her lips carefully, seeing how they curve around the words. Even if you can’t hear them, you _feel_ them. “I never meant to turn you into this.”

This girl left you—she took her stardust and her constellations, and left you with a starless sky. Took all her ethereal means, and sequestered them in this carved out goliath from the sky. This tin graveyard of ruined, rusting toys.

“We’re all someone’s regret.” You are hers. You are her mortal sacrifice for her people, the band aid on her heart that has no cure—it doesn’t have to be love, or profound care. It is the knowledge that you are who she could not look in the eye as she walked away—you are the shadow trailing her step.

You want to blame her— _need_ to, because otherwise you are simply the fool who trusted a falling star—but you can’t bring yourself to do that. Can’t muster up the anger, and hate, because _so much_ of you understands. Every part of you that isn’t a foolish, limping heart. This person you've become— _the commander_ —would have balked if she had done anything _other_ than save her people. The leader beating against the inside of your chest swells with some kind of bastard pride—because _you’re_ the reason she could peel away the emotion—to divide the feelings, until only her people remained.

But what has that left you?

Can you blame another player, if they just happened to have the better hand?

“I don’t want you to be just a regret, Lexa.” _Gods_ , how she says your name—softer, as if it is two separate breaths. She’s close enough now that her breath is warm on your lips, fanning along the blade of your cheekbone. You’ve squeezed your eyes shut, like that could somehow banish the desire form the pit of your belly. Where the heat churns, and spreads, and digs into you. Burrowing into your reprobate bones, and into your blood thick with ichor.

“I’m not _just_ anything,” it is wry, and even you are unsure where it comes from—somewhere untouched by the red, somewhere that had tucked away when strapped to that table. That had folded in on itself when they injected you time, and time, and time again with needles full of color. Parts of you that aren’t savaged and torn, that aren’t limping through life _trying_ to be the person—the _leader_ —people expect.

She smiles. It’s a small shattered thing, but this is some grand first step—you’re sure, even if you aren’t. She’s leaning forward, and you have only a moment to think— _she’s going to kiss me_ —before she’s pressing her lips to yours. Softly, carefully, like _you_ are the one who might break. She must feel the shake in your hands before she presses your palm more confidently against her cheek. Her mouth slants against yours perfectly, cradling your bottom lip between hers and she pulls back just enough to rub her nose along yours.

This kiss doesn’t change anything; you are still her conqueror, and her people pieces in your grand game, but she has wrapped her small sure hands around your battered heart. Not to squeeze, but to cradle—to warm the frosted edges with something softer. Sunlight, and spring skies.

You need to say it, need to make it clear.

“I’m still a re—,” you can’t even begin to say if it was _reaper_ , or _regret_ , or whatever else had been on your mind—it’s getting harder to think, but you’re kissing her now, moving forward on shaking arms until she’s pressed back into her pillow. Her hair a halo of gold around her head.

 “I know.”

Her fingers have left your hand, and they’ve both pushed into your hair, scratching at your scalp, tugging at whatever strangle tangle around her fingers. You’ve settled in the cradle of her hips, one knee raised up along your side, the other splayed out underneath the blanket separating you.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she’s clasping your chin with her fingers, redirecting your face, making sure she has snared your eyes, that she has all your attention. You can see how she looks for the shiver in your pupils, the dancing muscles of your cheeks—those twitches that don’t _fade_. That _live_ inside you now.

Clarke’s smoothing unruly strands away from your face, smiling that shattered smile—no, nothing is alright. There are leagues, and miles, and years of difference between your people—but you are going to carve the edges of _kongeda_ and _skaikru_ , and stitch them together as something new, something lasting.

But right here, you hardly feel the conqueror, you hardly feel the visionary—Clarke’s smiling at you, and that seems nearly as impossible.

With eyes so _blue_ , she says, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hey one tumblr, you can find me @ **civilorange** ; prompts, asks, and ridiculous posts abound.


	4. life loves death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT: "Life and Death have been in love, for longer than we have had words to describe.  
> Life sends countless gifts to Death, and Death keeps them forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only one I can think of is the one with the turtle. 8) This one was quickly jotted down while I was waiting for my burrito to arrive; as usual, string of consciousness, very little editing, because even though I make a thousand mistakes, I never end up fixing them.

So much has happened in the universe before you come around—before some silly little creature blinked its eyes open, and suddenly—you _are_. You watch that little mess of molecules and atoms bustle and twist, unsure exactly what you have done—parts of you have spilled into this creature. You feel it in each friction of heat, each splitting of cells. This… _thing_ , is alive—in ways the rocks and air can’t be, in ways crackling fire and drifting smoke can’t understand. Not exactly.

You watch the struggle, the uphill battles of survival, and you understand—in ways you hadn’t when your eyes blinked open the same moment as this creature. You feel the circulation of energy through your chest, out your fingers and into the world—more _life_ dissolving into this barren world.

But there is suddenly a struggle you don’t understand—a gasping shuddering pain that pricks the end of your fingers, makes you squeeze your eyes shut, and when you open them, there’s someone standing before you. Their eyes green, and skin golden as the sun—but it is as if they live far away, hazy at their edges, the darkness flickering just above their skin, stars laced into their pores. In their hands is your creature—your _living_ thing—except you can’t feel it anymore, can’t feel it at your fingertips, or in your bones.

“That’s mine,” you say, unsure for the first time in so long—you’ve never spoken, you’d always been alone here. This someone smiles, curling fingers around your creature, cradling them like they are precious. You can almost feel the phantom passes of fingers along your collarbones, down your arms—the last traces of life leave your creature, and they are no longer yours.

“I’m sorry,” they say, pulling your creature against them, as if they can pull it inside them—lodge it somewhere in the constellations in their chest.

“Who are you?” You feel like you already know, like this shouldn’t be a question you need answered—but they falter, brows pull close to green eyes— _green_ , nothing here is green, but you know the word like a secret whispered in your ear. They lift brittle shoulders in something that might be a shrug, or maybe they can feel the wind you can only hear—because their skin pebbles and their nostrils flare.

Instead, they say, “I don’t know.”

It took you that first lifetime to know who you were, years, or minutes, or decades—you don’t know, not really. You try to step closer, over molten rock, and through acrid smoke, but you can’t—as if you simply don’t remember how to move, how to _exist_. At least not when it brings you closer to them.

“I’m Life,” smiling, drifts of colored mist flitting from between your teeth—it had always been pretty, but you’d never had a name for any of the color. But now you know green—like their eyes. The other colors seem lackluster in comparison, gaudy and unnecessary.

They smile, galaxies spilling from between their teeth and off their tongue, little sparks float up—and up—and up—until they get lost in the black above. “Life,” they repeat, a whisper, taking steps away without turning around, their frame losing color, losing substance until they’ve gone. Your creature—no, their creature—with them.

Minutes, or hours, or years later, you hear them like a voice at the edge of the universe. Faint and imagined, “I’m Death.”

You don’t know what that is—what it means—until they appear again. Plucking your creatures from the ground, and the sky, and the sea, and closing fingers around them like a cage. They don’t speak, not for a while, but you think they’re beginning to understand too. You create these creature, pour color, and life, and movement into them—and they take them away. Press into their edges, and consume everything that had once been them—it’s a beautiful thing. Stars spill from their mouth afterward, little flickering lights that get lost high above, giving everything back—keeping nothing for themselves, but the creature.

Your molecules and atoms become fish, and frogs—lizards and rats. Growing larger, stronger, and more firm in your chest. The world—once a quiet place—becomes loud with life, with energy and movement. You can no longer remember each animal you have made, each creature you have placed into this world—but you feel them when they come. Feel the bristling tingle across your ribs, and into your chest—and you cannot be anywhere but there.

While you haven’t changed, wrapped in color; they have—their edges have become more defined, sharper, and their eyes brighter—the stars live readily in their skin now, like carefully placed diamonds. Their skin has grayed, leaving the gold for afternoons and sunrises—they are monochromatic in ways that defy the world, in ways that should unsettle and frighten.

But you just find it beautiful—you find them beautiful. The heat inside your chest in something you’ve yet to put a name to, it is something that hasn’t existed before, you know this. But just as you had named green, and yourself—just as they named themselves—it’ll come in time.

You know they feel you, like a fissure down their spine, and you say what you always do, prismatic smile in place, “That’s mine.”

“You’re to make me feel bad one of these days, Life,” they say, looking over their shoulder as they smooth gray fingers down the furred back of a strange beast you had been rather inspired when making. “Like a thief in the night,”

 _Night_ —that was something you named together.

“Maybe if you didn’t steal away so swiftly afterward, Death” you goad, taking a step closer—slow, and confident. You can get so much nearer now, so much closer—you can feel the cool waft of air swirling just above their skin.

“You wound me.” You know you haven’t, because they grin—all wide white teeth, and flickers of stardust.

“I have a feeling it takes more than words to wound you,”

Their lips loosen, a smaller, more genuine smile, green eyes alight, “This one’s magnificent.” Golden fur, like their skin had been at first, mottled with oranges, and browns, shaggy and majestic. The beast is laboring in their breath, their chest shuddering, but they’re calming under Death’s hand. The pain melting away, their great amber eyes closing, black lips slackening over long gracefully curved fangs.

“I made them for you,” that _thing_ in your chest, that feeling that you have no name for thrums and beats and bursts, and you don’t know what to do—but you’re moving, closer and closer, until you’re almost touching them. Death looks up at you, green eyes wide—and from this close you can see the gold that had left their skin now living in their eyes.

Beautiful.

“For me?” They ask, awed, but unsure.

You can’t speak, because that _something_ is clogging your mind, and your throat, and you merely nod—hoping they see everything that lives inside you that you haven’t the words for. Not yet.

This creature is far too large to cradle between their hands, so Death presses fingers into their fur, and the color bleeds from the great beast. The gold, and brown, and amber seeps into the ground, and dashes away into the sun—into the gems and the mountains. The shaggy animal lurches to its feet, shaking its massive head, and righting itself—blinking familiar green eyes open to look at you; Death's eyes. They stand up, still smoothing fingers through the beast’s fur, but the animal nuzzles and preens, tamed so easily by the careful touch of the star cloaked titan.

They smile at you, some of the animal’s color caught on their breath as they back away, unable to step closer to you, as you do them. Death is the end—while life is everything before.

“Do you feel it too?” You ask, because you think you see it in their eyes—lost in the emerald, forgotten to the celadon. Death turns, fingers twisted in the creature’s mane, their eyebrows pinching before they nod. Slowly, but confidently.

“What do you call it?” Because you have to know, you can’t simple follow this feeling—can’t create and nurture and shape this world based on something you can’t even _name_.

But Death simply smiles, eons living in their green eyes, universes sitting on their faintly golden breath. “Love,” simple, short, and suddenly the feeling expands and spreads. “I call it love.”

You call them gifts now—the creatures you mold carefully with your hands, which you paint liberally with color. Some go wrong—you don’t know what that _dinosaur_ phase was about—but Death never minds, they keep them all. Runs gray hands over each one, and cherishes them—tells you with smiles as much as words.

It takes you far too long to try and make them—try to mold a creature with high cheekbones, and a pointed chin, strong shoulders, and tapered waist. But is isn’t as if you’ve ever tried this before and Death doesn’t see the resemblance at first—simply coos over the grunting hunched little creatures, before leading them off into the dark by the hand.

But you get better—you straighten their spines, and smooth out their shoulders, you infuse regality into them, and when you paint them you can’t decide if you wish them to be dark like they are now, or gold like they had been. You settle somewhere in the middle—a smooth golden brown, dark enough to catch the sun, but light enough to not keep it forever.

You see stars spilling from their eyes as they curl arms around your newest beast, they shudder into Death’s embrace, holding on like there is nothing to hold them back. They love Death too, pieces of your love will live inside them, even when Death gives their colors back to the world.

“Thank you.” They say, and you only smile like a fool; a breath away, but forbidden to come any closer.

 _Humans_ , is what you name them. This strange creature that does strange things with their life—they build, and create, but they also destroy and ruin. You’ve never seen such detrimental ambition, and you’ve existed since—since the beginning. But they fascinate Death; their unsure, wobbly existence is at odds with the world you’ve created. They die younger than they should, and sometimes live much longer—so Death lingers. Hanging around, just out of reach.

Death decides that they are a _she_ , and you simply nod—parroting the answer back when asked. Because unlike you, Death changes—her colors are still gone, but her shape molds and defines—taller than you, and wrapped in the clothing that the humans are fond of. Tight and dark, shawls of stars wrapped around her shoulders, dragging behind her on the ground. She walks with fingers laced behind her back, her chin up, and you find it hard to talk sometimes, when she lingers.

You have a favorite human, a bright, and smart and selfless one who tried as hard as they could—but the world would not have it. They’re named after a bird—dark like night, and though you follow them like a shadow, it takes you a moment to remember— _Raven_. This favored human of your breaks, and cries, and you shatter inside, and as you sit beside their broken body, twirling your finger through their hair, you feel the chill in your spin that says she’s arrived.

You’ve never been disappointed to see her.

Because your bird—your Raven—will have her colors taken, and while you’d made this gift for death, you suddenly want to keep her. Just for a little while longer. Death lingers at your shoulder, waiting for you to sniffle and take a few steps away—and when you do, she kneels down at Raven’s side. Looking into sightless dark eyes, and lips pulled into a bloodied frown—a bullet to the chest, your human’s blood leaking out onto the floor.

“You love this one,” it’s the first time you’ve heard her use the word in regards to anything but yourself.

But you correct her, “I cherish her.”

“It has a name?”

 _It_ , Death has always been more distant than you, because she doesn’t truly watch their live, just waits for their deaths. She loves you, her gentle smiles are for you, and for the gifts she keeps—but the living that surround her? She doesn’t understand them, doesn’t _feel_ them like you do.

“Raven,” softly, watching how she smoothing fingers over Raven’s skin, softly, with consideration. You already see the girl’s colors fading, the gray and black pouring into her like a spilled ink well. And you’d painted her so beautifully.

“Raven,” Death repeats, “Like the bird.” When Raven blinks her eyes open, and looks at the beautiful titan crouching over her, she smiles, enamored like every other creature you’ve made—she loves Death just enough to cherish her. But there’s something _unsure_ that you see for the first time, a hesitation.

“Hello, Raven.” The star cloaked titan begins, “Can you oblige me a favor?” Helping the human stand, steadying her, and curling fingers through her hair. The human nods, dazzled and smitten, and you wished you could speak—but the dead can’t hear you, not any longer. When Raven turns, she looks through you, as if you aren’t there—and to her, you aren’t. Gray, and cool, and dead.

“Will you live a little longer? For me?” Death murmurs, pressing a kiss to the girl’s cheek, holding her close. “There’s happiness out there for you— _love_. Endeavor to find it; you deserve it.” And with a light press of lips—Raven gasps and color pours back into her. Rich, and vibrant, and lovely. Death turns her so that she may see you, and her eyes widen—because you exist, her heart pounds and her lungs fill—she looks at you with reverence, that you think Death deserves in your stead.

“Here,” Death whispers, “This one’s yours, at least for a while.” _I’ll make sure of it_ , isn’t said, but it is like you can hear it. Raven is pressed toward you, and for the first time you feel Death’s touch—only for a moment, but it pulses through you and lives inside you. Cool, and right, and you fall more in love than you thought possible.

When your human closes her eyes, and she fades from your realm, you’re left alone with Death—who shuffles her feet like a child, and refuses to look at you.

“How?” It is a disbelieving whisper, a hoarse question.

She looks _shy_ , and it is absolutely endearing, and you step closer—and closer—and closer—and just when you feel that press against you, that force that refuses to allow you any further, Death closes the distance. Presses against you and winds her fingers into your hair, her forehead pressed against yours.

“You’ve given me so many gifts,” she whispers, her lips brushing yours, and she gains color where you touch—golden finger tips, and rose colored lips. “I wished to give you one.” She understands a little now—what _life_ is, what it means. Even if life is just a gift now, you know she’s trying. When the pressure forces you both to step back, and you lose her cool touch, you simply touch your lips to remember how soft hers were. You try to find the color that had bled into her, but it's faded; it simply makes you want to run your hands down her neck, and across her shoulders. Paint her gold in the wake of your fingertips.

“Thank you,”

Her smile is lopsided, hands shoved in her pockets, as she walks backwards—without the life she’d showed up to take, and she’s never seemed happier. “ ‘til next time, Life.”


End file.
